


Fumbling Towards...

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Without a Trace
Genre: Denial, Happy Ending, Jealousy, Multi, OT3, Sexuality Crisis, Undercover As Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are not as easy as they seem to be. Some thing are not as hard as you think they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fumbling Towards...

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere within season three, after the fall-out between Samantha and Martin.

It couldn't have started out more clichéd even if they had tried.

They were on a case (and really, when were they ever not? Samantha couldn't remember the last time she'd enough spare time to go out clubbing) and Jack sent Martin and Danny undercover into a bar their suspect often frequented, to see if he'd show up. A _gay_ bar. Samantha wouldn't stop teasing the boys about it when she saw them in what was supposed to be their clubbing outfit; and maybe that was why she was the one assigned to radio duty.

And so it came to pass that Agents Taylor and Fitzgerald walked into a gay bar, with Samantha's laughter ringing in their ears.

"Go ahead, laugh it up," Danny said over the radio, the smirk he was probably wearing clearly evident in his voice.

It took her a full minute to compose herself enough to offer an apology that sounded even remotely sincere. "Sorry. I'm just not used to seeing you out of suit." Or with ruffled, wild hair that looked like he'd just fallen out of bed after a night of debauchery; but she didn't say that. "Hey, Martin, can you even sit down in those pants?"

And yes, it was teasing, but there was nothing cruel about it, and it certainly didn't warrant the sharp comeback. "Can we please focus on getting the job done and stop discussing outfits?" It was enough to sober Samantha at once, the light-hearted mood of the banter vanishing. Of course, she reasoned, Martin did have a point.

Her contrite "sure, sorry" was swallowed by the burst of noise and music as the boys entered the bar. It took Samantha a moment to get used to the sudden noise level and to readjust the volume of the earpiece.

"Good choice of music," she heard Danny say, to no one in particular. She couldn't make out the song, anything but the bass rhythm lost in the buzz.

"Yeah, well, unfortunately, you're not there to party. See anything of Carter yet?"

"Hey, I'm a talented man. I can party and observe at the same time. No sign of Carter. Will let you know when we spot him." There was a brief pause. "Hey, Sam, if you thought Martin's pants were outrageous, you should see what some of the guys here are wearing."

Samantha chuckled. "Shame you didn't bring a camera to take pictures."

"Next time we bug the bar with video cams for your viewing pleasure."

She was just going to reply that live video coverage of half-naked men might seriously hinder her ability to concentrate on the job when Danny's voice came through the speaker once again. "Relax, man. You wouldn't stick out more if you carried a sign with 'undercover agent' on it!" To anyone who didn't know Danny, it would sound like a casual, friendly advice, his tone jovial and easy-going. Samantha didn't miss the underlying tension, though, and she was sure neither did Martin.

"Not all of us have the gift to blend in anywhere like they belong," Martin shot back, his irritation more open and evident than Danny's.

Samantha could just imagine them: Danny cool and aloof, offering a smile and a wink to any cute guy who hit on him while Martin stood next to him, uncomfortable in the tight jeans and spiky bed-hair, looking right as if he'd wandered into the wrong room and frantically searching for the nearest exit.

She cleared her throat. "Keep it down, boys. Unless you're actually _trying_ to attract attention."

"Tell that to Marty here."

There was no answer from Martin; and when no further snappy comment followed, Samantha assumed that the argument was settled and they could get on with the program.

The music pumped in the background, a hard, low pounding in Samantha's ears; and she found herself taken in by the rhythm, her foot taping along in time with the beat. The operation should be easy enough. The subject wasn't considered dangerous, just difficult to track down. It didn't make her pulse settle down, or calm the adrenaline pumping through her veins. It wouldn't be the first time they found themselves facing a gun they never expected to be drawn.

Danny's voice suddenly broke through the noise, all annoyance and exasperation: "Oh, for fuck's sake. This is ridiculous!" Then there was rustling and a gasp, and Samantha sat up straighter, alarmed at once.

"What's going on?" All she got were the noises from the club. The stone-cold lump of panic settled in her stomach. Her voice grew more frantic. "Danny? Martin? Talk to me!"

There was another moment of silence. She already reached for the other radio to abort the operation and call in for reinforcements when she heard soft swearing. Martin's voice; and there was no panic, no fear, no tense 'Man down!' – just the same frustrated anger as before.

"We're okay," he assured her a second later. He didn't quite sound okay now, though. For a second, Samantha wondered if they'd been involved in some sort of struggle. But if they had been, surely Martin would say something; and the strain in his voice didn't quite seem to fit the situation. "Can we get on with this now? Carter could show up any minute."

"Sure. Yeah." Needing some further reassurance, she began, "Are you sure you're–"

"We're _fine_ ," Martin snapped.

And then Danny said, "Watch the bar. Carter's just arrived," and the argument was abandoned as they closed in on the subject.

* * *

She didn't put things together until later, when she watched Danny and Martin coming out of the interrogation room where Carter nursed his hangover with a well-earned coffee. It was almost quarter to five in the morning, and each of them would have rather been at home in bed than in the office. But it wasn't tiredness that showed in the hard look in Martin's eyes and the firm set of Danny's jaw, and in the way they wouldn't look at each other as they settled on their respective desks.

The lack of sleep didn't do wonders to Samantha's patience and sense of tact. She walked up to Martin and cut right to the chase. "What the hell went on in that bar, Martin?"

"Nothing," he said curtly. "We went in, we observed, we got our guy, end of story." He gave her a challenging look, almost daring her to ask further. It was obvious that he had a chip in his shoulder about _something_ , and Samantha was resolved to get to the bottom of it, even if Martin insisted on making it difficult.

"Look, Jack's gonna want my report and I have honestly no idea what happened in there right before Carter showed up. You had me scared there for a minute. I almost blew the whole thing off." She thought she sounded reasonable enough, and if her voice had an impatient edge, then who'd blame her.

It was Danny who, somewhat unexpectedly, came to Martin's aid. "Martin stuck out like a sore thumb in the bar. People were _noticing_ us, and not in the 'hey, there are two cute guys' sort of way. I just made sure we'd fit in. It was nothing."

There was a crash as Martin slammed his desk drawer shut, the resulting tremor causing two large files to slither down to the floor. Martin bent down to pick them up and threw them back on the desk with a vengeance that almost knocked over the computer screen. "I'm off. I'll hand in my report first thing when I'm back." His voice was clipped and he turned his back to Samantha and Danny as he spoke, picking his jacket and striding out without a further word.

Samantha stared after his retreating form. "Wow." She blinked and shook her head before turning to Danny, whose face was an expressionless mask as he watched Martin's exit. "That was dramatic. What the hell did you do? Offer him to the highest bidder? Feed the bartender fake details about yours and Martin's kinky sex life?"

Danny's smile was wry and didn't reach his eyes. "None of that. But it figures that Fitzie has a big heterosexual freakout over a kiss. He could barely stand to be in the bar in the first place."

It took a moment for his words to set it, and then Samantha's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "You _kissed_ him?" But even as she asked, the images formed in her mind. Sound-memories from before: the shuffling, the soft wet sounds of kissing, the breathless voice Martin had spoken with afterwards – now the soundtrack was enhanced by the corresponding visuals her mind helpfully provided. Martin, in those impossibly tight pants, all high-strung and tense and uncomfortable, while Danny got increasingly fed up with him, finally just reaching out and bringing their mouths together; Danny's hand on Martin's ass, his tongue in Martin's mouth, his leg sliding between Martin's…

The pencil Samantha had been fiddling with broke with a snap; and the mental porn movie came to an abrupt halt. Danny was watching her through narrowed eyes. Samantha had to hold herself rigidly to suppress the urge to shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

"No need to be jealous. I highly doubt that there will be a repeat performance." It wasn't a nice smile that stretched his lips, and there was no trace of humour in it.

The need to defend herself was almost overwhelming. "No, I— I'm not _jealous_. Just surprised, that's all." She offered a small, somewhat forced smile and tried to lighten the mood. "Well, no one can accuse you of lacking _cojones_. I mean, you know, it's… it's _Martin_!"

It seemed enough to placate Danny. He chuckled. "If Carter hadn't shown up, he'd probably have decked me."

Privately, Samantha thought that Martin would rather have run off. She didn't say so, however, silently watching as Danny picked up his things. He gave her a long, levelled look, drumming his fingers on his desk once. "See you tomorrow." For a moment, it seemed as if he was on the verge of saying something else, but he didn't. He just turned and left.

"Yeah, tomorrow," she muttered and watched him walk away until he disappeared behind the turn of the corridor.

When she was alone, the mental images returned, and this time they were harder to shake off. The trouble was, she knew Martin too well: his body, his habits, the sounds he made during sex, the way his eyes fluttered shut mid-kiss. It was all too easy to picture him with Danny. And what an image they made! She couldn't stop thinking of the sheer physical beauty of the two of them together.

It was distracting; and when she left the office an hour later, flushed with guilt and arousal, her report was still unfinished. The cruel glare of the morning sun brought tears to her tired eyes.

The image of Martin and Danny caught up in a heated kiss, burnt into her mind as surely as if she had been witness to the actual scene at the bar, stayed with her as she made her way home.

* * *

Maybe, if she'd had a good night's sleep, if the next day hadn't been eight long hours of administrative work and being berated by Jack because no one had their reports written up – maybe it would have turned out differently. Maybe her defences wouldn't have been down when Martin showed up at her doorstep at 10pm, just as she was about to turn in for bed. Maybe she wouldn't have let him in.

But it was Martin; and some part of her had never quite been able to let go and get over their break-up. Some part of her still wanted him here… still wanted _him_ ; and even though she wouldn't allow herself to admit that – not in words, anyway, not even in her own mind – she opened the door and let him in.

He looked a little scared and uncomfortable, as if he didn't really want to be here. But that was okay, because she felt scared and uncomfortable herself; and she didn't really want him here. And that, in some paradox way, made it alright when he reached for her and kissed her.

She could taste the faint remnants of Scotch on his tongue. The thought that, if she were a better person, she'd send Martin home crept into her mind, unbidden and unwelcome but easily banished as she fitted her body against his.

He clung to her as if he was drowning. She couldn't help but wonder if she was rescuing him or pulling him under even deeper.

* * *

"Good morning."

Samantha flinched and promptly spilled the coffee over the desk. Plastering a fake smile on her mouth, she turned to face Martin.

"Only you'd run from your own apartment," he said in a wry tone.

"I didn't run. I was up early; you were asleep. I decided to come in early. There was no point in waking you." She thought it sounded reasonable enough. Of course, it _wasn't_ reasonable. She'd woken up to find Martin asleep beside her, and she'd panicked. All at once, all the old reasons why it hadn't worked out between them the last time had come back to her, followed by a whole array of new reasons: like how unsure Martin had looked last night, or the way he'd kept his eyes shut when she touched him, or how he bit his lip when he came and she knew that the name on his tongue wasn't hers.

The absurd thing was that, although it was Martin who'd been using her, she was feeling guilty about it.

When he stepped closer, moving into her personal space and putting a placating hand on her arm, she froze. Martin seemed oblivious.

"So, we're okay?" he asked – a pointless question when it should have been obvious that they were anything but okay.

"Sure," she lied.

There was a small cough behind them that made them both spin around. Danny stood in the doorway, a file in his hand. Samantha was suddenly, painfully aware of Martin's hand on her bare arm, all too conscious of how their hushed conversation had to look to someone who'd walked in on them. How long had Danny been standing there? The brief flare of emotion on his face before the familiar mask of nonchalance slipped into place confirmed her fears. Instinctively, she wanted to speak up and apologize, say something like 'This isn't what it looks like' – even though it was just that. But she bit her tongue and swallowed the words, knowing that they'd only make it worse.

"Jack called in a meeting in ten," Danny announced matter-of-factly. He quickly ducked out of the room before Martin or Samantha could reply.

Too caught up in her own guilt, Samantha had almost missed Martin's reaction to Danny's entrance. It was the clutching of his fingers around her arm that alerted her to Martin's tension. Only when Danny was gone, the pressure eased again.

"We'd better get going. Wouldn't want to let Jack wait," Martin commented lightly, offering her an uncertain smile.

The sense of relief at the prospect of getting away from this was almost overwhelming. "Yeah, of course." This time, her smile was genuine, if only a reaction to having gotten off so lightly.

When he was at the door, though, Martin turned and said, "I've left my coat at your place this morning. Mind if I come by later and pick it up?"

It was as if the ground under her feet was giving way. "I—I don't—" She took a breath. "Look, Martin, you can use me to reaffirm your sexuality, or you can close your eyes and think of Danny. But you can't have both."

Martin recoiled as if she'd struck him. Somewhere beneath the surprise and the confusion, there was naked panic in his eyes. "I don't—" he protested. "I didn't—That wasn't what this was about."

He took a step back into the room, towards her. She neatly sidestepped him and went for the door, eager to get out and away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let this happen in the first place, and I'm stopping it before it gets any further." He opened his mouth to object, but she rushed on, "You can lie to yourself all you want, but don't lie to me. If you want my advice: go talk to Danny. Or don't. But stop putting me in the middle of this."

Then she walked out, and anything Martin was going to reply was forestalled by the sudden lack of privacy.

Samantha made a point of not going anywhere where Martin might corner her alone for the rest of the day. Martin didn't mention their conversation or the past night again, but he looked troubled and unhappy. She told herself she didn't care.

* * *

Guilt was a double-edged blade. If she had felt bad for allowing Martin to use her for feeding his denial, the blame she put on herself for snubbing him was even worse.

Martin's coat hung casually and lonely over the sidearm of her couch, a reminder that he'd been here only twelve hours ago.

Samantha stared hard at the coat until the pale grey blurred before her eyes. It seemed to glare back accusingly.

* * *

She arrived at Martin's place at nine thirty, his coat flung over her arm. It felt heavier than it really was. She was mentally composing what to tell Martin, how to make sure that he wouldn't take her presence at his door step the wrong way. She came as a friend, nothing else, and she was intent on making sure he knew that.

She pressed the doorbell quickly, before her nerves got the better of her.

It seemed to take ages until she heard footsteps approaching. The urge to turn around and flee got stronger, even. But then the door opened, revealing Martin in blue jeans and a half-unbuttoned shirt, his hair sticking out in all directions. All the carefully laid out words were suddenly gone.

"Martin, I—Hi." She laughed nervously. "Look, I'm sorry about today. I… I brought you your coat." She held it out for him to take.

He suddenly looked uncomfortable. It almost seemed reluctant when he reached out to take the coat from her hands. "Thanks. This isn't –"

Whatever he was going to say, she suddenly realized that she couldn't let him, not before she'd said what she came for. "No, wait, hear me out." She spoke quickly, afraid that if she stopped she'd lose her courage. "I'm sorry I've been giving off mixed signals. I'm sorry for being harsh earlier, but I stand by what I said. You should talk to Danny. Or at the very least, be honest with yourself and find out what you want. And I hope, after everything, we can still be friends." Put into actual words, it sounded clichéd and pretentious. She took a deep breath and, for the first time since she started her speech, dared to look up and meet Martin's gaze.

He smiled wryly. "You'd better come in."

She wouldn't have, except Martin didn't look as if he wanted to continue where they'd left of the previous night. She hesitantly followed him into the living room – and stopped cold when she found Danny sitting sprawled out on the couch. He was regarding her with an unreadable expression. It was too intense, making it all too obvious that her coming to Martin's place had been a mistake; and she blushed under the weight of Danny's stare.

This time, she couldn't bite the words back. "This really isn't what it looks like," she said hastily, instantly wincing at how stupid it sounded. "I just came to apologize and bring Martin's coat. I didn't mean to… you know," she finished awkwardly. "I'm sorry. I should be going."

She almost made it to the door.

"Stay."

Something clenched in the pit of her stomach, cold and uncomfortable. She mentally went through half a dozen more or less gentle letdowns she could offer Martin before her brain caught up with the fact that it had been Danny's voice, not Martin's. Danny, asking her to stay – and that changed everything somehow, because it wasn't an ex-lover clinging to the familiar, it was… Danny, who was the closest to a friend she had since she was sixteen. Who could be impossible to read if he wanted to; who flirted with everybody, but who she'd never seen showing any real interest in anyone beside Martin.

Danny, who she sometimes wasn't even sure liked her.

There was a world of implications in that one word of his. But maybe she was misreading the situation. Maybe it was merely an invitation to sit down and talk this through. And really, they _should_ talk this through, even if it was the very last thing she wanted. But in between Danny's posture, lazy and provocative all at once, Martin's slightly dishevelled appearance, and the heat of two pairs of eyes on her, she knew that neither of them had any more interest in polite conversation than her.

If she had been smart, she'd have politely declined and left. But she'd never learned to be smart about relationships, so she turned and looked at them (Martin still standing two feet behind her, wearing that 'just kissed' expression, Danny on the couch, looking as cool and aloof as ever, both of them too damn attractive for their own good). Before she could change her mind, she found herself asking, "Are you sure?"

Danny stood and turned to look at Martin. Something passed between them, an agreement of sorts, because the next she knew Danny was facing her again. The smile on his lips had grown a fraction warmer. "Stay," he repeated and reached out a hand to her.

Her brain fired a volley of reasons on why this was a bad idea, worse even than falling in love with Jack or becoming involved with Martin had been. She didn't listen. Crossing the room, she took the offered hand and let Danny draw her closer. The first contact, Danny's fingers against hers, sent a small, not entirely pleasant jolt through her. But Danny's smile reached his eyes and when she turned to Martin, he was looking more relaxed than he had been in weeks; and she thought, 'Maybe it'll be worth the fall-out.'

And then, she allowed herself the luxury of not thinking at all anymore.

* * *

No one was more surprised than Samantha when there _was_ no fall-out.

The awkwardness of the morning after was cut short by waking up at four thirty when all their cell phones went off simultaneously to call them in. There was no time for 'So, last night was interesting…' and 'We'll call you if we want to do this again…' and 'I'd love to offer you breakfast but…' because it was all a hurry of 'Has anyone seen my left sock' and 'I can't find my car keys' and 'Jack is so going to kill us if we're not there in fifteen minutes'. It was like every other early morning case, only there were more people to get on your way when you were trying to check your appearance in the bathroom mirror. Sure, it _was_ awkward, but not the kind of awkward Samantha had expected. And then they rushed to the crime site, and then to the office and the next thirty-nine hours passed in a frenzy.

It was only after the case was solved and Samantha was back at home in her bed, already drifting off to sleep, that she realized that nothing seemed to have changed between them.

When, the next morning, Danny smiled at her and brought her coffee, she dared to hope that they would get out of this with little to no damage, and maybe they could just forget about that one crazy night. But then her fingers accidentally brushed Martin's when she handed over a file and she felt a jolt of memory. She jumped and quickly drew her hand back.

"Sorry, I—"

She stopped, because stuttering apologies for a casual touch was more incriminating than the touch had been. A hot flush rose to her cheeks; and there was the painful realization that there was no way to just ignore what had passed between them and go back to the way they had been.

But when she had steeled herself for a disapproving response and looked back up, Martin was grinning at her. From two desks away, Danny was watching them with a smirk. And just as she was about to say something snappy and intentionally hurtful to stop them from making fun of her and diverting the attention, Martin asked in a tone that was almost casual: "By the way, Danny and me are off to have a drink tonight after we're done here. You wanna come?"

She looked at Martin wide-eyed, and then threw Danny a glance. Both of them were watching her intently.

"I— If you're sure I wouldn't get in the way of your boy's night out." Samantha's gaze still shifted back and forth between them. She felt like she was walking on broken glass, treating carefully so she wouldn't cut herself.

Danny, at least, seemed to understand. "Wouldn't have asked you if we didn't mean it," he assured her with a warm glint in his eyes. It was enough to make her realize that, perhaps, it didn't have to be complicated and messy and hurtful.

Maybe it could be easy.

* * *

Once in a while, Samantha would stop and ask herself how she had gone from 'two FBI agents walk into a gay bar' jokes to regular threesomes with her ex-boyfriend and her best friend.

They didn't do this often. It frequently seemed to happen after cases that had a deep emotional impact, but never after cases that ended badly. They didn't talk about it, but Samantha suspected that it was an unspoken agreement that neither of them wanted to reduce this to the desperate kind of comfort sought out after a case gone bad.

They didn't give it a name. It wasn't a relationship or an arrangement or a _thing_. It was just them. Samantha and Danny and Martin, and warm, wet kisses and exploring hands and the heat of the moment.

It wasn't just about that, though. There were other times too: going for drinks together (just the three of them, without Vivian and Jack), chatting about work, or sharing a large box of popcorn while catching a movie. Samantha sometimes wondered if they were the same people, then. If Samantha and Danny and Martin who hung out together in public and never shared a touch that went beyond the limits of platonic were really the same as Samantha and Danny and Martin who could set each other on fire with a simple brush of hands. But then, it didn't matter. It was just about labels, and she'd never been too fond of those anyway.

And if occasionally, someone said "I love you" into the dark of the bedroom when they were already half-asleep, no one ever mentioned it in the light of the day.

End.


End file.
